One Cold Night
by Takada Saiko
Summary: Kate breaks down and asks Peter for help as Neal gets sicker and sicker. Pre-series. .  R
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is just a little something that's been playing around in my mind for the last couple of days. I really am not a fan of Kate, even if you can't tell in this. Please R&R

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**One Cold Night**

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She didn't worry about him often. In her experience, Neal Caffrey had proven that he could take care of himself. Heaven knew that he thought that he could.

Kate stood leaning against one of the pillars that held the ceiling in her old loft apartment, eyes locked on the tossing figure of her boyfriend in their bed. She'd noticed that he was sniffling in the cold a couple days before, but that wasn't a stretch as the electricity had been cut the week before that. It was only a matter of time before the cold got to them in these months, no matter how much they bundled.

Sniffling had turned to sneezing, which had led to a deep, wet cough, and now Neal pulled the old quilt up around his shoulders, buried down in it. His face was white with only tinges of rose against his cheeks and his nose, indicating the fever that had spiked several hours before. He was shivering, coughing and wheezing out breaths as he lay alone. She'd barely gotten him to take the bed, as he told her that they shouldn't risk both of them getting sick.

Kate sighed heavily and moved to the window. A familiar black Taurus sat below. It was an ever-present shadow that loomed over them. Peter Burke. Neal seemed to get a kick out of the way the FBI agent tailed him everywhere he went. He said he found a better challenge with Burke following, but wasn't it that same "challenge" that had caused the slowdown in money flow and the fact that the only light in the loft came from various candles and the street lamps outside that shown in the large windows above the curtains.

After several long moments she made her decision and padded her way over to where her boots were laid over on the floor. She tugged them on, grabbing a scarf and jacket on her way back over to the bed. Carefully, quietly, she leaned over and kissed Neal's feverish face. Two fever-bright eyes blinked open, trying very hard to focus on her. "Kate?"

"Shh," she hushed, smiling down on him. "I'm just going to step out for a second. I'll be right back, okay?"

He nodded sleepily and heavy lids fell back over his eyes. After only a moment he was back in his fitful sleep and she slipped out the door.

Kate raced down the stairwell, hoping against hope that she wasn't doing the wrong thing. _Neal would do it for me_, she told herself. She knew very well that he'd do anything for her. He'd proved it time and time again.

The still figure of Peter Burke startled at the tapping on his car's window and it rolled down quickly. "Miss Moreau. This is a surprise."

Kate glared at him. She really couldn't see what Neal saw in him, but he respected the Fed, even if it was in the most bizarre way. She'd never liked the game of cat-and-mouse, even if she was good at it. "Neal's sick."

Peter cocked his head. "Excuse me?"

The pretty brunette let out a snort of irritation, her breath showing in a thick fog against the cold. Snow began to fall lightly around them, adding to the white dust that had already covered the ground earlier that morning. "He's sick and it's your fault."

There were a lot of things that had ceased to surprise Agent Burke when it came to the Caffrey case. Neal was forever unpredictable in his child-like excitement over the simplest things and love for the finer things. In all the time that he'd been tailing Neal, he'd never seen the other ill or even appear to slow down. He'd been notified when the power had been cut to Kate's loft and the thought maybe he was getting close. Maybe, just maybe, he'd finally waited until Neal would get sloppy.

Peter sighed heavily. "I don't see how," he said finally.

"You know how," she answered, her voice low and dark. The tension in her features slacked then and it looked as if an inner battle had been won by one side or the other. "Please, Peter. I've never seen him this bad. He likes you. Just… I don't know where to go."

If there was one thing that the FBI agent couldn't deal with – and he could deal with a lot – it was a woman crying. As tears spilled over Kate's eyes and down her cheeks he felt his resolve fading. He reached up slowly and killed the engine – the heat along with it – and motioned for her to step back. She did so and he slid out. "I swear, Kate, if this is some sort of scheme…"

She shot him a glare. "You think I'd use his life to get back at you?" she demanded. "I don't like you at all, you know that. You'll see him and you'll know why."

Peter shrugged and followed her up the stairs. He hesitated at the doorway when she slid it open. Kate turned, waiting, and Peter pulled his jacket closer to him. It was freezing in the small loft, the candles not providing any heat and only a little light. His shoes tapped against the floors and he followed the young woman to a bed on the far end of the single room. The sight of Neal stopped him in his tracks.

Peter suddenly felt guilty for ever thinking that it was a step in the right direction that the power had been cut. The young conartist lay shivering in the bed, fever evident and looking only slightly better than death. He crossed the distance, now ignoring the ill man's girlfriend, and laid a hand on Neal's face.

Blue eyes fluttered open and Kate's name died on his lips. Neal jerked away suddenly at the sight of Peter and the agent hushed him instantly. "It's okay. Neal, settle down."

"What'd're you doing here?" Neal slurred together, his voice raw from the coughing fits.

"Kate came and got me," Peter said softly, indicating back to the brunette behind him.

"I didn't know what else to do, Neal," she admitted. "I'm scared."

"I'm fine," Neal growled out, eyes flashing in irritation. He sat up, limbs shaking with effort as he struggled to stand. All at once his knees gave out beneath him and Peter caught him before he fell.

"Yeah, you're great." He eased Neal's shaking form back down to the bed. After a moment of watching him he peeled off his own jacket and wrapped it around thin shoulders. He couldn't do anything more if they were to stay there, so he shot a glance back to Kate. "Help me get him down to the car."

"You're not taking him anywhere," she hissed protectively.

"His lips are blue, Kate. He needs to get out of here. He needs a hospital."

She gritted her teeth and looked towards the man in question, and then back to Peter. "Fine," she bit out.

They received no real protest from the half-conscious conartist as they lifted him up. Kate maneuvered socks and shoes onto his feet and pulled a cap down over his ears. He'd have complained about it if he'd been awake enough to know, but as it was there was no response to the movement other than a coughing fit that stopped them in their tracks halfway down the stairs.

Finally the two made it down and to the car. Peter unlocked it and they slid Neal's limp body into the back seat. He motioned for Kate to take the passenger's side as he came around and climbed in, putting the heat on full blast. It filled the vehicle and he pulled out into the street, aiming for the nearest hospital.

"Thank you," Kate said lowly.

Peter let out a long sigh. "I'm not going to just sit by and watch him freeze to death," he murmured at last, unsure really how to take the thanks. "He's done a lot, but nothing to deserve that."

"Still. Thank you."

Neal Caffrey spent the next week in the hospital, much to his irritation. When Kate asked him about it later, he didn't remember the incident, but laughed at the idea of Peter Burke being put in such a predicament. "Would have loved to have seen his face," he told her. It wasn't much longer until their game of cat-and-mouse would be over for that round and Peter would put him in prison for the first time, but no matter how much unfolded between them, and no matter how little he actually remembered of it, Neal would be forever grateful. He just couldn't admit it.

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A/N: I'm thinking of making this a two shot with Neal and Peter at their current point. Should I?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So, everyone seemed of the same mind to have a chapter two here. So here it is =D Hope it's as enjoyable as the last one!

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They'd done the stake-out in the rain. Neal had warned him it was a bad idea, but Peter had told him to "cowboy up and get over it." With that the FBI agent had pulled his collar up, blocking the rain from going down his neck, and hunkered down in the alley to await their suspect. The suspect that never came.

The next morning Neal hadn't looked well. He was pale, shivering, and sneezing. Peter almost asked about it, but stopped, feeling slightly guilty over it. He hadn't given fair warning about the place of the stake-out, and Neal hadn't come prepared for the cold rain. It was, in all honesty, his fault, but heaven knew they had the battle of the prides more times than they didn't. So he stayed quiet and Neal suffered in silence, continuing to do the work set before him without complaint.

By noon he had the bullpen shooting worried glances in his direction as he coughed and sneezed into his hands, looking perfectly miserable. By four o'clock he was nowhere to be seen.

"Jones, have you seen Caffrey?" Peter called as Jones walked by his office.

"About fifteen minutes ago. In the bathroom. Guy looked horrible." He paused, glancing back and noting the empty desk that the conartist usual sat at. "Don't tell me you two were out in that storm last night?"

"Stake-out required us out in an alley without the car," Peter admitted softly, feeling a knot grow in his stomach.

He stood and started past the other agent and down the hall towards the bathroom. He pushed the door open and was met at first with silence and he thought that maybe Neal had found somewhere else to hunker down for a bit. After a moment he heard a pathetic sounding cough from a corner stall and he approached. He pulled carefully against the door and it swung open.

Neal Caffrey, usually so poised and put together, sat with his back leaned up against the stall, face drained of all color and eyes bright with fever. He glanced up, reaction delayed by several seconds, when the door opened and he tried for a smile. "Hey," he rasped.

The smidge of guilt that Peter had felt earlier intensified. "Hey," he answered back, crouching down to where the other man sat. "You could have told me you felt this bad and I would have taken you home."

"Lots of work to be done," Neal murmured, his voice raw and shaky. "'m fine."

"You're usually a lot better at lying than that," Peter teased gently and patted his shoulder. "Come on. I'll put Jones and Diana on look-out duty tonight. Let's get you out of here."

Neal gave a slow nod of agreement and took the extended hand that lifted him easily to his feet. He swayed slightly for a moment before Peter's hands on his shoulders steadied him and they started awkwardly for the door.

One look at the ill conartist and both Jones and Diana hurried them off, watching as the two men made their slow retreat.

"Do you know if June has anything to take care of a cold? Medicine? Live in doctor?"

"June's out right now," Neal mumbled sleepily.

"Out? Out where?"

"Vacation. I'm supposed to be watching the dog."

Peter frowned, thinking of the last time that Neal had watched June's pug. Thankfully the key to the anklet was securely locked away in a place that the conartist couldn't or wouldn't find it. "Are you saying no one's at the house?"

"Just the dog."

Peter snorted as they stepped out into the garage. "We'll call Mozzie to watch it. I'm sure he'll be able." He unlocked the door to his Taurus and eased Neal into the passenger side.

"Where will I be?" The door shut in his face before Peter answered, and by the time that the FBI agent had rounded the car and was climbing into his side, Neal's eyes were wide in what might have been panic. "I'm sorry. Don't send me back," he whispered desperately.

Peter blinked in surprise and he started the car. Heat flowed out of the vents, warming both passenger and driver. "Back where?"

"To prison," the other managed, bending over in the seat and slowly giving way to the coughs that began wracking his thin frame. He couldn't catch his breath for a long moment, but finally sat back against the seat shaking. "Please."

Peter reached a hesitant hand to the other man's shoulder. "You're not going back to prison, Neal. You're going to my place. I'm not sending you to take care of yourself like this. El would kill me."

This seemed to relax the ill man for a few minutes so that his keeper could finally start the drive home. It was quiet, with only the sound of the heat going full blast and Neal's wheezing breaths to fill the cold air.

It was a task, once they made it to Peter's place, to get Neal up the stairs and into the guest room's bed. Elizabeth wasn't home yet and Satchmo sat back at the door, tail thumping worriedly against the carpet.

After Peter was satisfied that his charge was settled in the bed – his coat and vest hung in the closet and shoes by the door – with the quilts pulled up to his chin and a glass of water already down his throat, he turned to let the other man sleep, mumbling that he'd start some chicken soup on the stove for when he woke.

"Hey, Peter," Neal called weakly, his hand peeking out from under the covers and reaching out towards the agent.

Peter sighed and returned to his bedside, grasping the clammy hand firmly in his own. "Hmm?"

"Never thanked you."

The older man shook his head, chuckling slightly to himself. "Hey, I'm the one that had you out in the rain last night, so I guess-"

"Not for this." Neal paused, his fever-ridden mind slowly processing his own words. "Well, this too, but not only." He coughed, trying to keep his breathing steady enough to finish his thoughts. "Kate said you took care of me."

Peter froze. It had been months since Kate's death, and the sudden mention of her worried the agent. Was Neal worse off than he'd imagined as was hallucinating the pretty brunette woman that he'd loved for so long? "What do you mean, Neal?" he asked slowly, cautiously.

Neal blinked, his face showing the confusion he felt. "Before you arrested me. The first time. When the power went out." He clenched his jaw in frustration, trying to force his mind to work. "When-"

"I know, Neal. I understand you," Peter acknowledged, suddenly comprehending the event the younger man was trying to convey. He had assumed Neal didn't remember a thing about it and might have even preferred it that way. They'd never spoken of it, either before or after his prison sentence.

"Never thanked you," Neal repeated tiredly. "So thank you. This and then."

Peter smiled and ruffled the younger man's hair. "You're welcome, Neal," he answered simply. He stood slowly, Neal's hand growing limp in his grasp and he realized after a moment that the other had fallen asleep. Propped up on pillows and wheezing slightly, he still looked better than all those years ago. Peter had to admit he'd been afraid for the young conartist back then. At least now he could keep an eye on him, and make sure that he didn't get himself into any more trouble. There'd be no electricity cut due to fewer cons being played or frantic trips to the hospital because of it. Neal was on the track to setting his life right, and even if there were many detours along that road, it was something that Peter could be thankful for.


End file.
